The Sky Falls
by snowflake912
Summary: Jake Cuddy's world is a whimsical study of people, puzzles and music - until one Tuesday in February Gregory House stumbles into his mother's life. As Jake comes to find, birthmarks are hard to hide... House/Cuddy/Stacy, Jake.
1. Ten Years Gone

Disclaimer: I don't own [H]ouse M.D. or any of the characters in this story, except for Jake Cuddy (and a couple of other honorable mentions). David Shore and co have the rights to everyone else.

Author's Note: I finally have enough time to post this story, which has been moping around on my laptop for months. It started with me thinking what brilliant, beautiful (if a little damaged) people House and Cuddy are. Naturally (preprogrammed instinct of procreation) I thought of what brilliant, beautiful children they would have. Thus the idea of Jake Cuddy was born, and let me tell you, the kid took a life of his own and was just bursting to be written. The setting of the story takes us to the time of the infarction, which brings Stacy into the picture as well. Some creative license was applied to cannon. For example, House and Stacy don't live in Princeton (yet), but they happen to be there at the time of the infarction. These instances are explained all throughout the story.

_The Beautiful Letdown_ is a prequel to this story, but you don't necessarily have to read it to understand the context of this. Essentially, this is a standalone, but if you're curious about House and Cuddy's college days that led them to this point in time, you can find TBL on my author's page.

I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

* * *

><p><strong>The Sky Falls<strong>

**Chapter One: Ten Years Gone**_  
>Then as it was, then again it will be<br>And though the course may change sometimes  
>Rivers always reach the sea<em>  
>(Led Zeppelin – Ten Years Gone)<p>

Jake Cuddy was a creature of habit.

On a Wednesday afternoon in mid-February, he strolled down the hallway of Brye Park Elementary School against the current of shuffling students, navy blue hooded sweater zipped up half-way over his preppy costume. Nirvana's _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ blared out of his iPod's earphones, and his fingers absently danced to the guitar tabs against the thigh of his khakis. At ten minutes past school time, the building was nearly empty. A bustle of activity drew his attention to the kids in detention, who were impatiently tapping their green pencils against yellow-brick, recycled paper, waiting for their assignments. He slanted a half-glance in their direction and continued past the classroom, Converse-clad feet light against the linoleum ground, dark gray backpack slung over his right shoulder. Grandma would be late to pick him up – like every other Wednesday. The excuses, he realized with a twinge of guilt, were becoming more elaborate by the week.

Last night when she had found him at the dining room table, obediently solving his math homework, he'd told her he would need to work on an art project after school. _Something big,_ he'd promised. _For mom_, as a truly inspired afterthought because his mom had walked in just as Grandma was pressing an oblivious kiss to his forehead. _Sure thing darling, I'll pick you up at three._ His mother's blue-gray eyes had narrowed suspiciously at the tail-end of their conversation, and she had raised a single questioning dark eyebrow at him. Plagued by keen interest with his homework, he had avoided meeting her knowing eyes. With an affectionate sigh of resignation, she had slid a croque-monsieur on the table before him and tousled his hair.

He hurried the last few steps – only twenty minutes left. Tomorrow he would need to come up with something to give his mom just in case Grandma asked, but that was tomorrow's plight. Checking both ends of the hallway for signs of authority, he was relieved to find them empty. The silver doorknob was cool under his hand as he quietly twisted it, breathing out to the smooth swish of the opening door. Jake sneaked inside and shut the heavily padded door. His palm hit the light switch, bathing the spacious music room in pale yellow neon. Dropping his gray backpack on the floor, he wove his way around empty wooden chairs to the piano tucked into the corner of the classroom. The instrument was old and worn but well-kept. The cover was heavy as he lifted it, nimble fingers immediately skimming over the cool white keys. The narrow wooden piano bench croaked in protest under his weight.

He tapped a few notes, flirting with _Do Re Mi_ from The Sound of Music, and then allowed the notes to melt into the opening to _Sweet Child of Mine_, humming the lyrics under his breath. The Guns N Roses classic was his mother's favorite song. Jake conjured the image of her reaching for the volume dial and turning it up whenever the song played on one of her CDs, like it took her to a beautiful memory he couldn't begin to understand. Sometimes he liked to romanticize that it was something about his biological father that made her eyes sparkle with fond remembrance, but it was not a thought he would ever mention.

He stopped, the pads of his fingers pushing into the keys to elicit a deep, dark note that served to banish his thoughts. He wondered if Grandma would be disappointed with the lies. She always cheated more candy into his room than his mom allowed, winking in the late evenings as she folded the plastic bags under his bed. _You're a responsible boy, Jacob. You'll know what to eat. _His mom always found them long before he could eat enough to cause any damage – even after he began changing the hiding place. She would roll her eyes good-naturedly, scold him for accepting Grandma's unhealthy food choices and probably scold Grandma for giving them to him. Still, Grandma never stopped bringing them and whispering to him as she tucked the covers around his shoulders. _You're my favorite grandchild, darling. Don't tell Sam and Nat._

His mom always outsmarted them both. Jake had the impression she was always one step ahead of everything in life, and he liked it that way. It made him feel safe. Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind of the distractions and heaved forward, hands gliding over the keys, playing the introduction to Supertramp's _Don't Leave Me Now._ The tune started out quiet and halting, building to a crescendo that resonated in the soundproofed room. As he struck the final note, he leaned away from the instrument and frowned deeply. It was not… _perfect_. Three Wednesdays of throwing Grandma off his track and sneaking into the music room had not done it.

Someone clapped from the other side of the room.

Jake twisted in his seat, heart hammering in his chest, bright blue eyes wide and guilt-stricken. His mother was standing by the ajar door, her navy blue suit impeccable under a white winter coat, black hair brushing just below her shoulders in gentle waves. Always one step ahead of the world. "Mom," he breathed out in relief.

She raised both dark eyebrows at him and crossed her arms under her chest, but Jake could see the smile teasing the corners of her lips. "I thought I'd find you here," she said, stepping further into the room and gently closing the door.

"I was just…" he trailed off, and even across the room he could read the expectant look on her face. Jake shrugged the narrow line of his shoulders evasively. "You know," he muttered, shambling out of his seat and retracing his path past the scattered chairs.

His mom picked up his backpack with a wry smile shining in her eyes. "You know sneaking in here without permission would get you into detention," she told him.

He grinned up at her, unrepentant in the least, ducking away when she brushed her free hand against his cheek. "I never get caught," he announced proudly, but his mom was far from impressed. Grandma would have been a much more susceptible target to his smiles. As it was, his mother stood before him, staring him down, and Jake wasn't good with _the stare_. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, testing his weight on each shoe, finally settling on a precarious balance. "I just wanted to learn that song," he mumbled, gaze trained on the tips of his scuffed shoes.

"You should ask Mrs. Baker before using this room," she chastised him. Jake gave a barely discernible nod. Her hand touched his chin and this time he allowed the tender caress to lift his face. He found her smiling at him, her features softened. "And no more lying to Grandma," she added firmly – as if she understood the urge – but Jake wasn't about to test his luck. She reached for the door, pulling it open with ease.

Jake followed her even gait down the empty hallway and pulled up the hood of his navy sweater, hiding a finely boned, cockily handsome face framed by short brown hair. "Music is art," he rationalized, giving her the most sincere look he could muster when she shot him an incredulous glance.

"Nice try, babe," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "But still, no more half-truths either." Together, they hurried across the deserted parking lot to her sleek black sedan. Jake slipped into the backseat and buckled up. She climbed into the driver's seat, quickly closing the door to ward off the February chill. When she turned the key in the ignition, the heater turned on full blast breathing out traces of her perfume, and the radio burst with theRolling Stones. She met his gaze in the rearview mirror as _No Expectations_ played softly in the background. "That was beautiful, babe," she said sincerely.

He averted her knowing stare in favor of watching the dreary afternoon through the rain-splattered window. "It sucked," he countered in a small voice.

"It was beautiful," she insisted and steered the car away from the school grounds. "Classic Supertramp." At his silence, he heard her sigh, a deep weary sound that told him she worried about him – constantly – as if she was afraid he could somehow hurt himself.

"Where's Grandma?" he asked to break into her train of thought.

She sighed again, but this time it was the half-amused, half-annoyed sound that always brought an answering smile to Jake's face. "Nathalie has chickenpox," she declared dramatically, slowing to a stop at a red light. She looked at him over her shoulder. "Grandma is busy worrying at Julia's house," she said in a matter-of-fact tone because that was what Grandma did. She worried a lot, mostly about the world hurting them. "Of course, she insisted she would pick you up, but I wouldn't trust her to drive when she's this distraught. You know how Grandma overreacts."

Jake chuckled at the understatement. "Chickenpox sounds awesome," he admitted, trying to visualize the symptoms of such an ailment. "Why do they call it chickenpox? Does Nat really look like a chicken now? Can we go see her?" he fired in rapid succession.

"Absolutely, not!" his mom exclaimed in horror. "For starters, I've never had chickenpox and getting it at my age is a terrible idea. And, trust me, babe, you don't want chickenpox."

Jake wasn't too sure about that. It seemed serious enough to warrant missing school but common enough to wring a smile out of his mother. "If I get it, I wouldn't go to school?" he prodded, quietly scheming.

Her eyes met his briefly as an amused smile curled her lips. "You wouldn't go _anywhere_ – including the house. You'd stay with Grandma."

That wasn't nearly as bad as she had wanted it to sound: all the candy he could get, TV before finishing his homework, socks on the floor, music at all times of the day. "I could still play the guitar?" he asked.

"You'd be too busy scratching every inch of accessible skin," she intoned, her expression nonchalant. She was onto him.

Wincing at the thought, he shrank into his seat. "Fine, no chickenpox," he conceded.

"That's my boy," that and a wink of triumph ended the chickenpox argument. "Besides breaking into the music room – again – how was your day, babe?"

"I won first prize at the science fair," he mentioned absently, strumming an air guitar to R.E.M.'s _Losing My Religion_.

"Jacob Benjamin Cuddy!"

He looked up in alarm, electric blue eyes connecting with blue-gray in the rearview mirror. "Uh-oh, the full name," he whispered severely.

"Why are you downplaying this?" she demanded. "This is amazing! Congratulations, babe. I'm so proud of you!" she exclaimed.

"Thanks, mom," he said and continued to strum his imaginary instrument. The devil was fiddling with Jake Cuddy's mind, and all he could think of as his fingers kept up with the music was what would _he_ think.

"We should call Angie tonight to let her know that one-hundred-and-thirty-two frogs paid off." The wide smile gracing her features was almost contagious, but Jake barely noticed.

At the time that he'd concocted the idea for the _Froggy Forecasting_ project, Angie Wheeler, his mom's best friend from college, had been visiting from D.C.. Like a true trooper and because Angie found everything amusing, she had spent hours helping him collect the frogs, inspect them and record their physical attributes. A photo of the two of them with all one hundred and thirty-two frogs by Lake Carnegie grinned from the mantle in their condo's living room. The snapshot was taken by his mom, who had rushed over from the hospital in her pencil skirt and insensible shoes to join in on the fun. Her high heels had gotten stuck in the muddy bank of the lake, and the three of them had erupted into endless fits of laughter. "Yeah," he agreed, managing a faint smile, but his thoughts drifted again, preoccupied with a man he didn't know – a man who didn't know _of him_. That, he decided, was what bothered him the most.

_Would you be proud - dad?_

As his mom pulled into the Palmer Square Residences garage, the rain began to fall, and his lips lifted in a sardonic smile that looked much older than his nine years.

* * *

><p>Lisa Cuddy was exhausted.<p>

Her Tuesday morning had begun like any other day. The early morning had brought the usual tiff: two doctors fighting over an OR, thrusting the lives of their patients under her nose to guilt her into making a call. Just before lunch, a patient's family had threatened to sue the hospital for negligence after one of her surgeons accidently popped a glove during a procedure. She had made ten minutes for a seasoned artichoke and sundried tomatoes salad, during which she'd gotten an emergency page from her new assistant because a nurse had sneezed in the OR. By four in the afternoon, the clinic had been crawling with patients. Her cardiothoracic surgeon – who was on clinic duty – had gone missing for three hours. She strongly suspected an affair with his scrub nurse. A moment of peace in the sanctuary of her office had been interrupted by her mother calling to tell her that Nathalie was scratching. _She shouldn't be scratching, Lisa! Should she? _Then Julia had called to tell her that their mother was driving her up the wall.

It had been grueling but predictable, and Lisa loved the comforting certainty of routine.

At sunset, Gregory House had walked – stumbled – into her little corner of New Jersey like an unseasonal whirlwind, shattering the teetering balance of her ordinary world.

"_Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." _

"_Who hires you people?"_

_The loud voices assaulted her the moment she pushed past the clinic doors and walked up to the nurses' station. The nurse at the reception bit her lip helplessly and gave her a telling look. With a frown and steely resolve, she burst into exam room three angrily, ready to restore order. _

_Lisa Cuddy did not often experience moments that threw her off her turf. She was a planner. She made it a hobby to foresee obstacles and surprises. She scheduled diligently and everything fell into place, or she coerced it into place. When she walked into exam room three on that Tuesday morning, she had the breath knocked out of her lungs. Doctor Brown, a visiting physician from Princeton-General, was standing at the exam room table, where a furious Gregory House was perched, staring daggers into him. It didn't stop at the staring. He was giving Philip Brown a piece of his mind. _

"_You're an idiot," he bit out furiously - loudly. He was shouting. "This is the third day in a row I come to this place. Get me a doctor who actually has a functional brain. I'm _telling_ you what's wrong with me. Now, I need you to get me an MRI so I can assess the damage." _

_She allowed herself ten seconds to take him in – one for every year she hadn't seen him. He was as disheveled as he had always been – dark uncared for stubble lining the strong set of his jaw, vintage gray t-shirt unabashedly tattered under a well-worn leather jacket. He still wore leather beautifully, like it was made for him, for the broad frame of his shoulders and the sullen tilt of his mouth. His hair was darker than when she had last seen him, threads of gray beginning to lick at beautifully tapered sideburns. Ten years had made the blue of his eyes more brilliant, more knowing and sinister._

_Lisa snapped out of her thoughts at the sight of his jaw clenched in pain as his long fingers dug into his thigh. _

_Doctor Brown frowned at him dubiously, the two of them oblivious to her stunned presence. "Doctor House, you have a history of drug-seeking behavior. I will not admit you on the basis of unapparent pain in your leg. Twice over the past two days you have snatched painkillers out of doctors' hands and injected yourself with them. The likelihood of this being something besides an addic…"_

_She slammed the door shut, and both pairs of eyes snapped to her. As she encountered his gaze, the years seemed to fall away. They were young again in Ann Arbor, bantering at Al's Café over black coffee and a candied latte. She was lending him pens and wondering when they would fall into bed together. It seemed like a lifetime was exchanged but in fact only a few seconds had elapsed._

"_Doctor Cuddy," Philip breathed in relief. "The patient…"_

_House was too impatient to let him continue. "Lisa, finally, someone with a semi-brain. Do you work in this hell-hole? I need an MRI. I have an infarction in my right thigh."_

_No pleasantries for their first run-in in ten years. On any other occasion, she would have smiled, but he was in such pain that she just nodded and turned to Doctor Brown. "Philip, take Doctor House for an MRI immediately and admit him as a patient. We'll take care of the paperwork later." _

_Philip's jaw dropped. "But…"_

"_Now, Philip. And for God's sake, give the man some morphine." _

Lisa tied the sash of her robe tighter around her waist, padding into the dark, empty kitchen on bare feet. The electric kettle hissed softly, and she laid her hands on the marble countertop, peering through the foggy window at the gentle snowfall. _Who plays golf in February?_ Gregory House, she thought sardonically, her lips curling in a pained smile.

After getting him an MRI, she had called Stacy at his delirious urging. Lisa had known Stacy Warner for years. They'd worked together on several occasions over medical lawsuits. They were acquaintances. One would even say they were friends who enjoyed the occasional cup of coffee or working lunch. Stacy Warner was House's emergency contact and his girlfriend if his incessant mumbling of her name minutes after she'd given him morphine was any indication.

Stacy had arrived, as poised and Southern as always. She'd cried by his bedside, held his hand and pressed kisses to his pale cheeks. Lisa found herself oddly content knowing he had someone to care for him. His thigh muscle had been necrotic. In typical, erratic House fashion, he had stubbornly wanted to bypass it by circulation. After putting him in a chemically-induced coma to help him cope with the worst of the pain, Stacy had put her medical proxy to use, authorizing Lisa's middle-ground solution that was infinitely saner than House's suggestion.

She had saved his life, but House wouldn't see it that way.

"Mom? Why are you crying?"

Lisa looked up suddenly from her curled position on the living room couch, palms cupped around the ceramic warmth of her mug. The steam rising from the hot liquid smelled soothingly familiar. Her teary gaze latched onto Jake standing by the doorway in his New Jersey Nets pajamas, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Come here, babe," she whispered, replacing the mug on the coffee table and opening her arms. He scurried into her embrace, climbing onto the couch beside her, his warm body strangely comforting. She placed her cheek on the crown of his head and sniffled.

"Is Grandma okay?" he asked in the small trembling voice of the child he so often denied.

Heart aching for both him and his father, she stroked his back soothingly and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Grandma is fine," she reassured him. "She's picking you up from school tomorrow."

She could feel the tension ebb out of his small frame. "Then what's wrong?" he insisted and sat up to stare into her face.

His wide-eyed, innocent gaze was brilliantly blue, and the years had almost dulled the memory of the man responsible for it. _His _gaze had never been innocent – always jaded, knowing, piercing. His unintentional foray into her life came with a thousand repercussions that made her stomach churn uneasily with long-buried secrets. Biting her lip, she drew in a deep shuddering breath. "A friend of mine hurt his leg," she confessed softly. "It was my hospital's fault. They could've helped him. It could have been stopped," she whispered, another tear squeezing past her will power. "His leg is hurt very badly." She wondered how much a child could understand of a hurt leg. In children's eyes, knees got scraped, ankles got sprained and time healed all wounds.

Jake was frowning, "Why didn't they stop it?" he asked, young features schooled into a severe expression.

She tamped down the stabbing pain in her chest. "They didn't know. They thought it wasn't true."

"Why would he lie?"

Drug-seeking behavior was a concept she did not want to explain to her nine-year-old son. She took a sip of her green tea and shrugged. "I think they just didn't understand the kind of pain he was feeling," she explained, not straying too far from the truth.

He studied her, brow furrowed in disbelief, but he let it go. After a beat of silence, his expression turned solemn with realization. "Will his leg get better?" he asked, voice quieting to a sympathetic whisper.

She shook her head on a muffled sob.

"Is he going to be okay?" he queried gently, his arms reaching for her and encircling her loosely.

Lisa clasped Gregory House's son to her chest and hugged him tightly. A million thoughts and images raced through her mind: their days in Michigan, that one cold night in Boston, House's face buried in her pillow, his eyes sparkling at her with intent, the fleetingness of their time together, and then Jake. She wondered how much House would come to resent her for this but dismissed the thought with resolve. As far as she was concerned, there was no reason he should ever find out. Soon enough, he and Stacy would return to their lives in New York, and it would be as if this had never happened. "I don't know, babe. I hope so," she said honestly, flashing a tearful smile at him.

"I'm sorry, Mom." His earnest face tugged at her heart, and she felt another tear slide down her cheek. Jake swiftly brushed it away, and she kissed his smaller hand tenderly.

"I love you, babe," she whispered.

"Love you, too."

Rising off the couch, she stretched her hand towards him. "Come on, let's get you to bed. It's almost half-past midnight."

He yawned sheepishly at the reminder and slipped his hand into hers.

* * *

><p><span>AN: Thank you for reading! Reviews are love! :)

Also, I have a clear image of what Jake Cuddy looks like and managed to find a young actor who pretty much personifies that. If you're interested, please PM me and I'd be happy to share a photo with you. For those of you, who would rather keep that part up to their imagination, I wouldn't want to ruin it for you.

Oh and one more thing, the "Froggy Forecasting" science fair project is taken from an awesome website called _Science Buddies_.


	2. Come Crash Into Me

Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with this mess.

Author's Note: I would like to start by thanking all of you wonderful readers for the overwhelming response to this story. I'm very, _very_ happy that you're enjoying the premise of this story and are excited to find out where it's going. I'm going to try for shorter but more frequent updates. I already have some of the next chapter written so hopefully, I will be able to update on a weekly basis. I have a lot planned for this story, and I'm looking forward to share it with all of you. Thank you again for reading and reviewing!

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: Come Crash Into Me<strong>_  
>And the strangest thing<br>Was waiting for that bell to ring  
>It was the strangest start<em>  
>(Coldplay – The Hardest Part)<p>

A cold night in late March found Stacy Warren tucked into the passenger seat of a black Saab, her fingers absently playing with the frayed edges of her seatbelt as she listened to the incessant rumbling of the exhausted engine. She imagined the hitched angry noise echoed the turmoil plaguing her companion whose long fingers were curled in a white-knuckled grip around the leather steering wheel. The music that usually poured out of the tattered speakers – old rock songs that made anywhere seem like home – was absent. Icy blue eyes stared straight ahead, not once flickering in her direction, as if the sight of her was too much to bear in the agonizing aftermath of a particularly frustrating session of physiotherapy.

She wished he would say something to interrupt the aching silence.

She wished she could think of something to say.

As if sympathizing with her desperation, the car choked, and he cursed, fingers drifting from the steering wheel to the ignition, violently twisting the rebellious key. The decade-old Saab, bought on a whim when he had perversely decided he wanted to stay in Princeton, sputtered in a last-ditch effort to survive, and he used the momentum of its forward motion to careen it to the side of the otherwise empty road. With a lengthy chain of creative expletives that incinerated the bemoaned silence, he parked the car haphazardly.

She sank further in her seat, her teeth nipping at the corners of her lips, feeling almost guilty that the universe had come to her rescue. "Something is wrong with it." She felt ridiculous the moment the words left her mouth, quiet voice blistering the darkness of the car.

He was pulling the hand brake when he cast a sideways glance in her direction. His eyes were unreadable in the shifting shadows of the Princeton night, which in itself was a blessing. She didn't think she could face his condemnation while mirroring his impenetrable façade of cool composure. "That's very observant," he muttered under his breath.

The sarcasm, which could usually make her smile, had no heart. He was afraid letting it go would set his teetering world spinning off its axis into an abyss of the unknown. She understood the urge. There were so many things she clung to for normalcy like the taste of his kisses after coffee in the morning and the smell of his aftershave on her pillow because he always went back for a five minute nap. Her index finger absently touched the cross around her neck, and her lips curled in a self-mocking smile. She had worn it to bear the brunt of his scrutiny as he analyzed her mental state – because she missed telling him off or kissing the questions away – but he hadn't noticed. "Just call the mechanic, Greg," she sighed as he tugged at the door handle, pushing the door open and letting in a gust of wind.

In his white t-shirt with its cackling skulls, which seemed to mock him these days, House was oblivious to the biting cold. His other pain far surpassed the sting of the fifty-five degree weather. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I can fix this," he insisted, the heavy night chill dulling the sharp edges of his words.

Stacy pretended not to notice that his hand carried his right leg over the seat. She swallowed past the lump in her throat as he limped around the hood and rattled it open impatiently. She wondered if he felt like fixing the run-down vehicle would help him make sense of the insanity his world had tumbled into. She wondered if the inevitability of his failure would shatter him into thousands of jagged shards that would bite into her in recrimination. She'd been in enough car jams with him to know that he wasn't handy with engines.

He disappeared behind the newly polished hood, clattering around the engine tirelessly. A few minutes later, his hand clasped the edge of the hood and pulled it down enough for him to peer over it, his annoyed gaze narrowed to slits of electric blue. "Can you try the ignition?" he called out.

Reaching for the chainless key, she gave it a firm twist. The Montblanc keychain she had given him for their anniversary two years ago was rattling around in his bedside drawer, unopened but acknowledged with a half-smile and a flick of his wrist that sent her nightgown to an undignified pool on their bedroom floor. The engine groaned and shuddered for three seconds before completely dying. It left an ominous silence in its wake. His lips moved in a slew of mute words, and he slammed the hood shut. He walked back to the car door, his limp more pronounced, the scowl on his face dark and stormy. He threw his bad leg into the car like an unwanted possession, the rest of his body following with surprising grace. Even at his meanest and surliest, he was a beautiful man.

"Well," he began, slightly breathless. Physiotherapy had exhausted him, but he would never admit to any kind of weakness – save for a useless leg he could blame her for. "This is fucking perfect, isn't it?"

The rhetorical question hung thickly in the air between them. _This_ was far from perfect. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop the surge of tears clawing at her throat. "You should probably call the mechanic. And someone to tow the car," she suggested, and she sounded as calm as the ocean on a sunny August day. Pretense was an art he had taught her well.

Shifting to rearrange his large frame, he dug his phone out of the front pocket of his faded jeans. He flicked it open with his thumb, scrolled through his contacts and hit the dial button. "Hello, Wayne, this is Gregory House. The car died again at the intersection of," he paused to look up at the street signs. "Chambers Street and Hulfish Street. Could you arrange for someone to tow it to your garage?" He was quiet for a few seconds, listening to Wayne's insincere apologies on selling him the ramshackle Saab and then something that made him frown. "An hour?" he sputtered incredulously. "Could you make it ten minutes?"

She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile at the whining childishness of his request.

"Fine. Send your guy. Make it quick." He used his prickly chin to close the phone and leaned back into his seat with an angry sigh. Another day in the life of Gregory House. The universe had conspired against him. "At least an hour," he said without looking at her.

She was getting used to this, being spoken to like a ghost or an invisible friend. It was better than the silence, she reflected. "At least we have chairs," she said with soft humor, her pensive gaze trained on the quiet street. Except for a king-size bed, the two-bedroom apartment they had moved into a week ago was still stripped of furniture. She had spent the last two days in Manhattan, working out the legalities of giving up their lease and shipping their furniture. Their old queen-size bed had been sold to a greedy real estate agent, who was furnishing his daughter's house. It was deemed too narrow for the baggage – both emotional and physical – that came in tandem with House's newly damaged leg.

"Yes, little blessings," he muttered dryly. Reaching for a lever under his chair, he slid his seat all the way back and stretched his legs. The sharp breath he drew in sliced through her like an admission of guilt.

"I got the job with Jefferson & Rose," she told him. The ensuing stillness was suffocating, punctuated by the familiar rattle of his pill bottle and the faint pop of his thumb against the plastic cap. In her peripheral vision, he dry-swallowed a single white pill.

"Mazel tov," he said finally, voice flat and unfeeling.

With a disappointed sigh, she followed his gaze to the mundane civility of a man and child crossing the street. Her little hand was clasped tightly in his, and when she tripped over her shoelaces twice, he scooped her into his arms with a mixture of impatience and amusement. The duo made it across the empty street and disappeared into one of the buildings like an illusion crafted by the night. "What do you want me to do, Greg?" she prodded. Her tone was a little harsher than she had intended for it to be, clawing at their precarious balance viciously. She was exhausted from her futile attempts at scaling the fortress he had carefully built around himself the moment he'd regained consciousness and touched a hand to his bandaged thigh. After the shouting and the swearing came the silence, and it lingered, looming like a mute companion, who was impervious to her frustration.

"Whatever you want to do," he replied and rolled down his window. The sounds of early evening were apologetic and soothing, taking a backseat to their mute companion.

"Do you _want _me to work in the hospital?" she insisted, her voice catching on a light breeze that hovered between them.

He looked almost bored with the topic and propped his elbow on the space emptied by the open window. "It's your call, Stacy," he repeated with a hint of irritation.

"I want to work in the hospital."

Something that resembled a smile curled his lips with derision. "You're right, fielding malpractice suits is a much better career path than the best law firm this side of Jersey," he mocked.

Stacy side-stepped the brewing argument and pursed her lips. "I want to be there for you," she said quietly.

The unbending set of his jaw told her he was angry, but he paused long enough to curb an outburst, sparing another explosion in the minefield they had been frequenting since the infarction. "I don't want you to take a pity job for me," he stated.

She stiffened. "It's not a… you know what, just forget it. I shouldn't have asked," she snapped.

He worked his jaw for several seconds that stretched into a full minute. When he spoke next, the words were tinged with something warm and familiar. "So, what's the verdict? Lawyers versus doctors?"

Stacy clung to the warmth and resisted the overwhelming urge to reach for him. "I already turned down Jefferson & Rose," came her simple reply.

He made a sound that was half-way between a laugh and a grunt, and relaxed the tense set of his shoulders, leaning his head fully against the headrest. He closed his eyes and plowed the fingers of his left hand into his hair. "I need a couch, a six-pack and _The L Word_ in high definition," he mused.

Her lips curved in a small smile. "Shipment gets in tomorrow," she reported.

A vague motion of his head mimicked a nod. "Good."

When the dreaded quiet descended upon them, she decided that she couldn't bear it for the next hour in the confines of his beat-up car. "Lisa lives a couple of minutes away," she stated, letting the suggestion settle before looking at his profile. She liked being around the dean of medicine. Her presence had a strangely calming effect on the raging volcano beside her. He was always so busy trying to criticize her job or ridicule her outfits that for however short a while, he seemed less _miserable_. Lisa took his insults with surprising grace and humor. She understood his barbs for what they were because no matter what he said, Stacy recognized the soft-spot he harbored for his soon-to-be boss. During the infarction fiasco, she'd gleaned that they had gone to med school together at some point.

"Cuddy?" he asked with a dubious frown.

"Yeah. We could wait at her place instead of staying here for another hour. It's cold and dark," she noted the obvious with little enthusiasm, but he didn't seem to be listening. "It looks like it's about to rain, and I really need to pee," she added for good measure.

He sighed then as if she'd left him no choice. "Fine, let's go." Twisting in his seat, he reached for his crutches which were neatly stacked on the backseat. The move in the cramped car brought his face dangerously close to hers, and Stacy gazed up at his studious features, cast into sharp relief by their proximity. He hadn't touched her in weeks. When she leaned closer to him, breathing softly against his chin, his eyes locked on her for the first time that day. She met the tortured depths of his gaze with hooded eyes. She ignored the rage and turned a blind eye to the resentment coloring his eyes a shade she didn't recognize. Lifting her hand to his face, she cupped his scruffy cheek in her palm and drew closer. Her lips barely touched his, feathering hesitantly before she leaned further into him and kissed him in earnest. He kissed her back, his hand fisting in her hair as his mouth ravaged hers. The pressure of his lips against hers was bruising, his stubble unapologetically rough.

Short breaths slithered past her lips to ghost over his bottom lip. "I miss you," she whispered, words muffled as she rubbed her wet lips against his. She slid her right hand down his chest, fingers toying with the button of his jeans. "And I want you," she breathed, moving to press a line of kisses along his jaw.

His hand was firm but gentle when it clasped hers, prying it away from his crotch before letting it go. "Stacy, don't," he beseeched her and pulled away, completely dislodging her. Unaffected, he used his free arm to carry his crutches from the backseat. She pushed her door open, feeling bereft and mortified, trying to hide her swollen lips with the back of her hand. The taste of his angry kiss lingered on the tip of her tongue, sharp and unforgiving. She watched him because he wouldn't look at her. He hid a grimace as he propped the crutches under his arms and took two slow steps, pausing to readjust the arrangement. Stacy imagined he had sore spots from using them for the past six weeks – not that he would tell her. She fell into step beside him, slowing her pace to match his uneven gait.

They walked in silence for three minutes, then he frowned.

"How do you know where she lives?" he asked curiously as if her humiliation was easier to hide than her well-kissed lips.

Stacy pulled the cool night air into her chest deeply. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't a fifteen-year-old love struck adolescent, but God she wished the pain wasn't so merciless. "I had to drop off the legal forms for the lawsuit against Phillip Brown last Sunday. Lisa wanted to discuss them," she replied, her voice even, her throat aching with suppressed regret, anticipating the inevitable outburst.

He sliced a sharp glance at her out of the corners of his eyes. "I told you we're not suing him," he declared steadfastly. "He's an idiot who can't tell his ass from his elbow."

"Let's discuss this, Greg," she suggested calmly. "Later," as an afterthought, because she wasn't in the mood to argue with him before they walked into their future boss's house.

"No! Don't do that. Don't dismiss me like some – some child. We're not going to discuss this. It's _my_ leg," he stressed, giving her a laden glare as if to remind her that at the apex of their lives, she had forgotten the crucial pronoun to the leg in question. _His_ leg and _her_ decision. "And I don't want to sue him," he said with finality.

She released a long-suffering sigh and tucked her hands into the pockets of her beige coat. "Fine."

"Fine," he echoed as a single fat raindrop hit him square on the nose. He cursed under his breath and wiped it on the shoulder of his white shirt.

"You're going to catch your death cold dressed the way you are." At his silence, she turned right and started up a five-rung flight of stairs, questioning the wisdom of bringing their darkness into Lisa Cuddy's home.

"This is Cuddy's place?" From the foot of the stairs, he was studying the two-story condo with reluctant approval, his expression as mysterious as his stance.

She bit back the sarcastic retort he had bred into her. "Yes."

"They sure pay deans of medicine well," he muttered, and whatever profundity had made him pause was gone as he laboriously made it up the stairs.

"Try not to insult her in her own home," she told him frostily and reached for the doorbell. Her finger lingered long enough for a short buzz that prompted the quick pitter-patter of footsteps on the other end of the door. At her side, House shifted with something akin to nervousness, but he was never nervous. Stacy dismissed the thought as quickly as it had formed and pasted an amiable smile on her face.

**TBC**

* * *

><p><span>AN: Reviews are love! Also for those of you who asked to see a photo of Jake Cuddy but whose emails disappeared in the review form (for some weird reason), I have posted a link on my _livejournal_ which is under the same name as my account here (i.e. snowflake912).


	3. Wage Your War

Disclaimer: I definitely don't own them. I'm still debating whether I'll stick around for next season.

Author's Note: First off, as always, thank you all for the amazing response to this. I am ever so grateful and happy that you're enjoying this. I have so much planned for this leg of House and Cuddy's (and Jake's) story.

This chapter took a little longer than expected. Real life has been quite busy lately. I'm sitting for the GMAT in a week, and studying has been taking up much of my free time. Still, at 40,000 feet, I managed to put this together. I don't love it, particularly, but it's a step in the story to be told. I'm struggling a little with their mindsets. That said, I'm beta-less. I usually write without a beta, but lately it's becoming glaringly clear that I need someone to bounce ideas off of during the creative process. So any volunteers in that regard would be much appreciated.

Onto the good stuff. Please enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: Wage Your War<strong>_  
>I've got this feeling, there's something that I missed<br>I could do almost anything to you  
>Don't you breathe, don't you breathe<em>  
>(Snow Patrol – Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking)<p>

_Lisa Cuddy did not pace._

_She said this to herself thirteen times as she wore a hole into the deep green carpet of her father's study. The last time she had paced, she'd been in Princeton-General, outside the radiology wing, where the smell of sterile white tiles made her feel nauseous. The last time she had paced, a three-year old Jake had been getting an abdominal X-Ray to determine the fate of the marble he had smilingly swallowed. That time she hadn't particularly cared for the fact that she wasn't a woman who paced. She'd been worried sick. _

_This dreadfully quiet Sunday afternoon, dressed in a cheerful, cashmere ruby red v-neck, she was pacing again. _

_She hadn't slept in days. At ten in the morning, she had ushered a grumbling Jake to the car and drove to her mother's house, two hours early for their Sunday lunch. Arlene Cuddy was a force to be reckoned with, especially when she was suspicious. Fielding her probes had been grueling. As soon as the lunch leftovers had been cleared from the table, Lisa had cornered Julia and told her to meet her in their father's study. So she waited, and she paced. And she felt guilty because Jake – sweet and cautious Jake – would never know that the father he had asked for time and time again was going to be minutes away. She felt guilty because she knew she would continue to lie to him. _

_The door creaked open, and Lisa whipped around to find Julia walking in, eyebrows caught in a shallow frown of concern. She closed the door and walked over to one of the maroon leather chairs, lowering herself into the plush seat. "Well?" Julia prodded._

_She heaved a deep breath and paused mid-stride to encounter her sister's expectant gaze. "House – Gregory House – is in Princeton." _

_As the implication of that simple statement dawned on Julia, her shapely eyebrows climbed high onto her brow. "What do you mean he's in Princeton? What is he doing here? When is he leaving? Are you in contact with him? Does he know anything?" she fired in rapid succession. _

"_It's ah-complicated," she muttered and rubbed a palm across her forehead tiredly. _

"_I'm listening."_

_Walking over to the empty armchair, she fell into the leather seat and released a trembling breath. "The past four weeks have been insane," she began._

"_Four weeks?" Julia repeated – clearly baffled. _

"_Four weeks ago, I walked into the clinic to find House chewing out one of the visiting physicians." Julia's gasp barely registered on her as she replayed that fateful afternoon in her mind. "He was screaming in pain. He had an infarction in his right thigh, and he'd been misdiagnosed for three consecutive days. When I found him, he had already diagnosed himself and was begging for morphine. I admitted him and personally oversaw his case…" _

"_Wait, what was he doing in Princeton?" Julia cut her off impatiently._

"_His girlfriend's cousin was getting married."_

"_Girlfriend?"_

"_Yeah, Stacy Warner," she smiled ruefully. "The surgeon wanted to amputate his leg, but House would hear none of it. I suggested a middle-ground surgery that would save the leg but leave it severely impaired. When we put him in a medically induced coma, Stacy authorized the surgery through medical proxy. We removed this much –" she made a fist with her right hand " – dead muscle from his thigh. He was furious when he woke up. He was furious with me for suggesting it. He was mostly furious with Stacy for authorizing it when she knew he didn't want it. The following two weeks, they stayed here for his recovery, and he began attending physiotherapy sessions at the hospital. Last week, on a whim, he decided he wants to move to Princeton. He asked me for a job, which I gave him, against my better judgment, but I just couldn't say no," she finished. The night he'd asked her for a diagnostics department, she'd lain awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling as if the answers to this impending crisis could be found there. It had been the first of a series of sleepless nights. "And, no, of course he doesn't know anything." _

"_And you didn't tell me _any_ of this while it was happening?" Julia chided her. "You should have said _no_ to the job. You should have sent him to Princeton-General from the very beginning."_

_Lisa gave her an incredulous look. "I couldn't, Julia. His condition was getting worse by the minute. It's a miracle he didn't wind up dead from all the toxins that necrotic tissue was releasing into his blood." _

"_Forget the medicine. You're in way over your head here," she said candidly. "If Jake finds out about him, he's going to want to know him. Even though he's stopped asking, you know how much that boy wants to know his father. If he finds out about Jake…" _

"_I can't let either of those things happen," Lisa interrupted in an effort to calm the violent roiling in her stomach. _

_Julia's features softened with sympathy. "Then just don't say anything. Don't even think about it. When or if the time comes, you'll introduce them to each other as your son and your employee – nothing more, nothing less."_

"_He looks so much like him," she whispered, her voice twisted with pained nostalgia. The instant her eyes had met House's solemn gaze for the first time in a decade, the resemblance had stolen her breath. She quelled the tears that pricked the backs of her eyes. "Somebody's going to notice."_

_Julia shook her head with certainty. "You only see it because you know. To anyone else, it wouldn't be remarkable," she reassured her. _

_Lisa wished she shared her confidence. Burying her face in her hands, she voiced the thought that had been plaguing her during those restless nights. "Maybe it's time for me to tell him."_

_The sound of Julia's loud tsk-ing was only slightly soothing. "Don't be stupid, Leese. He wasn't father material before, and I'm sure he still isn't. Both he and Jake are better off this way."_

_That was what the rational part of her mind had been telling her. "What if he finds out?" she asked in an uncharacteristically small voice._

_Julia left her seat and walked over to stand beside Lisa's chair, pressing a comforting hand to her narrow shoulder. "There's no way he can find out," she said firmly. _

_Covering her sister's hand with her own, Lisa gave her fingers a weak squeeze of gratitude. "You don't know him," she said and flashed an uneasy smile at her. _

Pushing the thoughts away, Lisa frowned deeply. There was something off about the hospital's accounts.

Tucked into the corner of her gray-beige couch, she worried her bottom lip as she read through last month's financials again, still unable isolate the metaphorical bleed. The soft, downy throw tangled between her bare legs warded off the early evening chill, and the clock on the mantle kept time with soft ticks that filled the dusky silence. Tapping the tip of her ballpoint pen against the paper, she sighed and rolled her neck tiredly. She needed to get to the bottom of this. With renewed resolve, she rearranged the booklet and began by pouring over detailed pharmacology costs. She was barely through the first page when the shrill buzz of the doorbell reverberated in the empty house. A puzzled frown wrinkled her brow, and she cast a hurried look at the gilded clock. It was almost seven o'clock. Jake wasn't due back from soccer practice for another twenty minutes.

Swinging her bare legs off the couch, she slid her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers and placed the stack of papers on the sturdy glass table. Jake must have finished practice early, she reasoned as she hurried to the foyer. Foregoing the peephole, she unlatched the lock and lowered the door handle.

"You're ear…" Lisa's words died on her lips when the intricate door fell open and revealed her two unexpected visitors. As if summoned by her raging anxieties, Stacy and House stood at her doorstep, looking rundown and more exhausted than she felt. Stacy's knee-length beige raincoat was rain-splattered, and a rueful smile that looked both affable and hapless curved her lips. Behind her, House, propped against a pair of crutches, was defying the Princeton cold in a worn, white t-shirt, his expression unreadable. Her heart twisted against her ribs in protest, and she was suddenly aware of how vulnerable she felt in her long-sleeved, checkered nightgown that stopped several inches above her knees. "Oh, hello, Stacy, House," she stammered, opening the door wider and stepping back self-consciously.

Stacy bit her lip. "Lisa, we're so sorry to be dropping by unannounced. Our car died just up the street, and they'll need an hour to pick it up," she explained apologetically and shot a surreptitious, telling look at House over her shoulder.

Over the past six weeks, Lisa had been privy to the tension between the pair. An embittered House had made no secret of his disdain for Stacy's decision. Taken by his current plight, he obliviously shuffled to find a more comfortable arrangement. Composure restored, she looked back at Stacy and returned a subtle nod – their exchange settled. "Don't worry about it. I'm happy to have you guys. Please come in," she ushered them inside, shutting the door against the beginnings of a rainy night. Leading them through the foyer and into the living room, she watched their gazes trail along her homey furniture, thankful that neither of them lingered on the framed photographs long enough to notice the little boy featured prominently in most of them. The erratic rhythm of her heart quieted at the notion of shelving the explanations for now. When they hovered around the furniture, she made a vague gesture with her arm, encompassing the two arm chairs and the three-seat sofa where her throw was strewn. "Please sit," she urged them, and House promptly dropped into one of the plush, pale blue armchairs.

"Nice slippers," he remarked, his voice scratchy and misplaced in the comfort of her living room.

A hurried glance at her feet made her acknowledge the teasing sarcasm in his voice with a half-smile. Lifting her gaze back to his, she found him averting Stacy's warning glance like a reprimanded child. "Would you like to have anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? Soda?" she offered.

"Scotch?" House intervened, sharp blue eyes narrowing on the stack of papers she'd left on the coffee table.

"Sure," she answered quickly, nodding in confirmation. They both looked like they needed a drink – badly. Stacy was frowning as she loitered beside him and followed his stare to the printout of the hospital's budget. "Stacy?" she prodded, hoping to distract her from her obvious predicament. "Wine?" she suggested and plucked the knit afghan from the couch, draping it around her shoulders like a shield.

Shaken out of her thoughts, Stacy smiled self-consciously. "Tea is fine for me," she declared quietly. "I'll help," she said and followed Lisa out of the living room and into the spacious kitchen, where a breakfast table was tucked into a nook bordered by floor-to-ceiling windows that boasted a well-kempt backyard. Stacy eyed the set-up appreciatively. Last Sunday, they had sat across from each other at that table, sipping black coffee and pouring over the legal case against Philip Brown. Stacy had gushed incessantly about what she had fondly dubbed _the breakfast corner_.

Moving around with familiar ease, Lisa switched on the electric kettle and reached for the cupboard over the sink, releasing the magnetic latch. She scanned the contents and finally selected an unopened bottle of scotch.

"I feel terrible about this," Stacy confessed. "We've interrupted your evening. You were working and obviously waiting for someone. I'm sorry. I talked Greg into…"

"Stacy," Lisa cut her off firmly. "Don't be silly. I'm glad you thought of coming over. I wouldn't want you to be waiting in the rain when I'm only a couple of minutes away. And House's leg probably hurts – a lot," she added in a quieter voice. She thought of him sitting in her living room and felt another pang of dread. He was much tooclose to everything she had been fiercely protecting for a decade.

Stacy swallowed tightly and used both hands to push her hair away from her face. "Yeah," she agreed. "Not that he would tell me," she added under her breath.

Pulling an ice tray out of the freezer, Lisa gave her a sympathetic look. Three cubes of ice rattled into an expensive crystal tumbler. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "He'll come around." The confidence in her voice made the other woman shake her head sadly. Lisa caught the glint of tears in her eyes.

"I don't think he will," she admitted.

A frown sketched across her brow as she poured scotch into the tumbler. "He loves you," she stated reassuringly.

"Not enough to forgive me," she murmured.

Lisa looked up just in time to catch her quickly brush away a stray tear with the back of her hand. She promptly turned around under the ruse of rifling through a box of teabags, allowing the other woman a couple of minutes to compose herself. When she turned back to face her, Lisa was holding both their drinks.

"Thank you," Stacy said, taking the ceramic mug out of her hands.

"It's chamomile. It has a soothing effect," she joked with a half-smile.

Stacy's answering smile was tremulous but grateful that they hadn't dwelled on the topic.

They returned to the living room to find House still perched on the armchair, staring intently at the hospital's budget, which was now brazenly splayed across his lap. The image took her back to an early Ann Arbor morning fourteen years ago. His hair had been lighter, his stubbly face not quite as weary as he'd skimmed her syllabus and spewed out disconcertingly accurate judgments on her character.

"That's classified information, you know," she told him dryly, pressing the cool glass into his palm before burrowing into the corner of the couch to watch him as he tipped the glass back and swallowed the golden liquid. From the other armchair, Stacy was watching them with a curious frown.

He steadied the tumbler on the flat arm of the chair and gave her one of those brilliant, sparkling looks that said he had unraveled something. Throwing his gaze back to the scattered papers, he ran his calloused index finger down one of the sheets. "Your oncologist is a thief," he declared with an easy grin. "Every time he signs off on a budget," he paused and rifled through the papers to select his proof. Collating five sheets, he thrust them at her impatiently. "That budget happens to increase by say ten grand. Sometimes he's bold and he goes for twenty. I have to say, it's been working out well for him. You could barely tell at the beginning, but then the additions started accumulating, and the entire hospital's budget flickered by three percent. He couldn't expect a Jew not to notice." He shook his head with mock indignation.

"Give me that," she muttered, collecting the papers out of his hands. She quickly scanned through his findings as he sipped the scotch. "Damn it," she hissed, following Hank Tanner's signature across the fluctuating budgets. She'd been trying to find a pattern by department, not by delegation of authority.

"Are you going to fire him?" House pushed, returning a messy heap of unused documents to the coffee table.

"Of course I'm going to fire him," she snapped.

Ignoring her snide tone, he plowed forward, intent on driving his point home. "Good, because I have just the guy for you. James Wilson, board certified oncologist, fired from his last job for _caring_."

"Greg, I think Lisa has given us more than our share of gratuity jobs." The reprimand made him press his lips together as if biting in something acrid.

Sensing the brewing argument, Lisa graciously interceded with a kind smile and quick reassurance. "I'm actually _privileged_ that the two of you want to work at PPTH."

To her left, House snorted childishly. "Totally," he piped in, which only made Stacy sigh in resignation.

Lisa rolled her eyes, realigned the papers and settled back into the couch exhaustedly. "I've been trying to figure this out for weeks, but I just couldn't doubt anyone from my board, especially Hank. He's always so eager to help out, I just didn't think…"

"Are you sure he's not just eagerly salivating after you?" The suggestive look he gave her trailed down her form, lingering on the expanse of bare thigh peeking from below her throw.

She felt herself flush with awareness.

"Greg!" Stacy exclaimed in alarm. It was almost like she hadn't been in his presence long enough to expect him to say such things. Or – Lisa acknowledged with a twinge of remorse – he had changed to the extent that this kind of behavior from him was unrecognizable. Either way, she looked back at the papers, giving them ample opportunity to glare at each other, and she told herself this wasn't awkward at all. So what if she and House shared a sexual history – an explosive one at that. So what if they had a child he didn't know about. Stacy obviously had no idea about the former, and nobody but she, Julia and Angie Wheeler knew about the latter.

When she raised her head, House was shrugging, as insensitive as always. "In many cultures, that's a compliment," he said matter-of-factly, and Lisa allowed herself a smile private smile at that. "If all of your outfits are like the-deceiving-long-johns-that-turn-into-a-beach-dress," he thrust his chin in the direction of her admittedly short nightgown. "I think you should pay your employees compensation for daily sexual harassment," he concluded, the gleam in his eyes daring her to refute his logic.

"That's enough, Greg."

"Fine," he sighed as if she had taken away his favorite toy, and Lisa's heart sank when his gaze lit on the Xbox Kinect tidily sitting behind the glass doors of the closet under the flat-screen television. "Why do you have an Xbox Kinect?" he asked, eyebrows delving into a thoughtful frown. "Not that I don't appreciate the console. I just never imagined you as the type to kick off your stilettos and shoot a round of virtual hoops."

She parted her lips to say something, but the words died in her throat at the sound of the ringing doorbell. The buzz was insistent, almost jubilant, and she felt the blood drain out of her face as she quickly shuffled to her feet. "Excuse me," she murmured under her breath, trying not to linger on their bewildered expressions. She wanted to scream. It was too soon. She wasn't ready, and she wasn't sure she could live with the guilt of what she was about to do.

_Breathe, Lisa. Breathe._

She steadied her breathing and pasted a wide smile on her face as she pulled the door open.

* * *

><p>House evaded Stacy's burning gaze. He was being obnoxious and callous, and he couldn't bring himself to stop. His vindictive appetite fed on Stacy's embarrassment. As a sharp pang of pain shot through his thigh, he clenched his jaw, feeling justified in his less than exemplary conduct. And then there was Cuddy, and how much it amused him to get a rise out of her. Her husky laughter dismissed snarky remarks that lesser mortals would shudder at. She was ballsy and collected, fiercely independent and everything he wasn't feeling. He tried not to stare at her delectable ass as she padded out of the living room in her ridiculous slippers. Being in love (and furious) with Stacy didn't make it any easier to forget their shared past. He remembered with surprising clarity their various unholy unions. The doorbell rang again, as if her visitor was becoming impatient. He wondered who it might be. She'd looked visibly shaken when she'd excused herself, but she had obviously been expecting someone earlier. That meant she didn't want them to meet the visitor in question. A boyfriend, he surmised and frowned at the startling unpleasantness of the thought.<p>

He heard the click of the opening door, the quiet whistle of the wind seeking refuge from the night, followed by the warmth of an exuberant greeting that made his stomach clench in something that resembled panic.

"Hey, mom!"

House's gaze shot to Stacy's wide-eyed stare in alarm. Woes forgotten, they shared a long laden look. He hadn't seen _this_ coming. His eyes frantically touched on the items in the neat living room, trying to place the clues of a boy that evidently lived here. The Xbox Kinect was a dead giveaway. The photos on the mantle caught his attention. From his vantage point, he couldn't see them in detail, but they all featured a boy through the various stages of his life from toddling to toting some sort of sports trophy.

"Hey, babe. Watch it, you're all muddy! Shoes at the door," Cuddy was instructing the invisible boy. "We have guests. Come on in."

Afire with curiosity, House straightened in his seat, a deep frown denting his brow. He exchanged another confused stare with Stacy, before a fairly tall, lanky boy who looked to be somewhere in his preteen years burst into the living room. Clearly expecting other _guests,_ he faltered at the sight of them, as if he didn't quite know what to make of their presence.

House drank in the slight frown that formed across the boy's rain-splattered brow.

"Stacy, House, this is my son, Jake," Cuddy declared, and it was impossible to miss the pride in her voice. It was also impossible to miss the nervous flutter of her hand as she tucked a strand of wavy dark hair behind her ear. "Jake, this is Stacy, the hospital's lawyer, and Doctor House, who is going to join the hospital in a couple of weeks as head of the new diagnostics department," she explained, as if the two of them had already discussed the intricacies of her new recruits.

House shifted his gaze back to the boy, who was now smiling a close-lipped, well-mannered smile. By any standard, Jake Cuddy – if that was his last name – was a good-looking kid. His short brown hair, fair in the photos, was darkened and tousled by a combination of wind, rainwater and sweat. His eyes were a curious blue that was even more interesting when framed by wet, spiked eyelashes. He wore a soccer outfit: knee-length socks with shin-guards underneath them, maroon shorts and a plain white t-shirt. All items were equally mud-streaked.

"Hi Stacy and Doctor House," he greeted them politely. Jake's sharp gaze fell on the crutches House had propped against the back of his armchair. Pausing curiously but not long enough to be rude, he then shifted his stare to assess Stacy. House thought she looked a little bit daunted by the child's easy confidence, but Stacy had faced the worst juries and judges without so much as a misplaced blink. He figured it was part of deflecting how much this development in Cuddy's life left _him_ unbalanced.

"Hello, Jacob," House heard himself speak and forced a sarcastic smirk onto his lips. "It's nice to finally meet you. Your mother has told us so much about you. In fact, we've spoken of nothing else the past hour," he lied, giving Cuddy a pointed look over her son's head. She shied away from meeting his eyes – an admission of guilt, if he'd ever seen one.

"Hi," Stacy echoed awkwardly. "Nice to meet you, Jake."

Cuddy cut into the palpable tension by placing both hands on Jake's shoulders. "Alright, babe. Shower, now. You're stinking up the place," she teased.

Jake rolled his eyes at that, and the gesture was disturbingly reminiscent of Cuddy. "Nice to meet you guys," he said, waving an arm over his head as Cuddy guided him out of the living room and into the hallway.

House strained to hear their faint voices as they kept up a lively conversation all the way down the hallway, but he couldn't make out anything except Jake's, "… and I scored!" said with more gusto than the rest of the conversation. He thought the boy must have been around ten years old, and he struggled to fit that into the timeline of when he had last seen Cuddy. Was she married? He hadn't seen a ring at any point during the past six weeks. He couldn't have missed a ring. He looked at the photos again, narrowing his eyes to bring the images into sharp focus. There didn't seem to be a father figure anywhere. If the child was ten, she had already had him when he had last seen her in Boston. A wry smile ghosted over his lips at the memory. Maybe she had adopted, he rationalized, but that didn't explain the child's resemblance to her.

When she walked back into the living room, she was both radiant and weary. House had never seen that particular combination on her, and he struggled to adjust his image of the woman standing in the doorway, tensely tying the sash of a blue robe she had evidently sought from her bedroom. Lisa Cuddy, the youngest doctor to ever hold the title of dean of medicine at Princeton Plainsboro, the first female dean, top of her class at the University of Michigan, unapologetically gorgeous, always dressed to the nines, always on top of her game. Lisa Cuddy, mother to ten-year-old Jacob.

"… and the mystery of the Xbox is solved. Tune in next week for more of Lisa Cuddy's secret children," House announced mockingly, imitating the tune of a radio commercial as he stilled her with a spearing glare.

Stacy wisely opted to stay out of that one, and Cuddy cleared her throat uncomfortably, mirroring his stiff posture. "It's not a secret, House," she said with quiet dignity, and whether intentionally or not she made him feel very small. "Everyone knows. Don't overanalyze this. It hasn't exactly been the ideal time to catch up," she packaged the omission so nicely that he would have believed her had he been less desperate for a diversion.

"_It,_" he mimicked, using air quotes to emphasize the pronoun. " - is not exactly such an insignificant detail. I would imagine having a child would qualify to make an appearance in small talk."

Her incisive glare lit with the fire House remembered. "Small talk?" she echoed on a sneer. "At which point between trying not to kill you by not amputating your leg and then dealing with your post-infarction self-imposed blues was I supposed to make small talk?" she asked tightly, her voice controlled and even.

He scoffed, at a loss for words, and rubbed his thigh almost roughly. "Where's daddy dearest?"

"House," Stacy warned, but he barely heard her over the racket inside his head.

Cuddy didn't acknowledge her either. She looked frozen, as if he'd dashed her with a bucket of ice-cold water in the middle of January. "That's none of your business," she said flatly, still perfectly composed, but House heard the catch in her voice. He had known Lisa Cuddy too intimately to not pick up on the nuances of her altercations. He had obsessed over her for far too long. And _this_ certainly meant something.

He shrugged then, like it suddenly didn't matter, resigned to retreating for the day. "At least we have an owner for the Xbox. I was having a hard time placing you on the playground."

"He seems like a wonderful little boy, Lisa," Stacy intervened, the words warm and sincere in the aftermath of his snide remarks.

Cuddy smiled at her. "Thank you."

"We should get going," Stacy declared with faux remorse. She'd always been a good liar, which, House reasoned, made her an excellent lawyer. "Thank you again for having us."

"It was my pleasure," Cuddy replied automatically. It was one of those responses that had been drilled into her and made up with propriety for what it lacked in sincerity. Despite her many achievements, Lisa Cuddy had always been a terrible liar. Perfunctory smile in place, she followed them into the foyer and held the door open for them. As she waved them off, she didn't urge them to stay longer or invite them for a repeat.

The rain had almost stopped, leaving a moody drizzly cloud in its wake. Streetlights lit the inky black night like beacons of refuge. His leg hurt like the devil had chomped into it, and Stacy walked at his side rigidly, holding in a thousand words he could almost hear in the silence.

"That was an interesting twist," he remarked conversationally.

And that unleashed her words.

* * *

><p><span>AN: Thank you for reading! Use your words, just like Stacy, because reviews are better than chocolate. :)


End file.
